(first appeared in “Mind in Motion  -winter 1990)

Blind concentrations of power,
generated by a cycle of souls on the ground;
people,
with mineral objectives,
raising voices of anger to tune of the discontent.

Time patterns the arrangement:
pride stands primped in historical mirrors.
Decades refract,
and day after day wears paint fresh with new colors.

New banners are boldest.
Old shades, once brilliant,
smashed subtle by modern materials;
pieces fly,
and beams align by random habitation.
The subsequent structures are founded in mud.

Destiny!
A parody of light,
Images are bent in transcription,
millions of faces are pressed to the screen.

Prisms:
adding fuzz to the uncertain,
bending ray after ray till the spectrum has faded to black.

Folly!
Small sparks obtain lighthouse proportions;
clowns play kings as they dance on the darkened stage.

Pinholes,
fostered by contrast,
cold aspects of sunlight drawing moths to be singed at the
wing.

The streets are lined with treadmills,
millions on millions march grasping at stars.

Ardent,
whims raised to a passion,
adding heat and momentum to a fire raging out of control.

The ground is burned to gray,
the heat suckling on modern chaos.
All shades are distorted and colors are blended to drab.

(first appeared in “Mind in Motion  -winter 1991)

We are merely vessels of blind talent.
We have no visions of truth.
we see only as far as our hands:
strong and skilled,
hungry to touch and make and possess.
Holding and hoarding, we claim ownership.
We grip all that our feelers find,
yet grasp nothing.

We claim the light of wisdom in our darkness;
pointing to our accomplishments.
Yet the mysteries we solve are not mysterious,
just the solid object of physical fact,
stumbled upon in pride.

With unguided fingertips we fumble our surroundings,
reshaping the clay we trip over,
building newer and better monuments to our blindness,
crushing city after city to build one house.

And oh, do we sing:
our horns tire from the blowing!
And ever so boldly we march to the beat,
banging our heads,
trying to quench the thirst for tools;
hands screaming for occupation,
minds moaning for light.

There is no questioning our proficiency,
we are able to do all that we are called upon to do.
But in our blindness, we hear only ourselves.
We would be better to do nothing,
if only that were possible.

There was a time when we didn’t notice the damage:
yearning to climb, but unable to see under foot,
but now jagged bits of destruction puncture our
outstretched hands,
yet we continue our groping,
singing songs to a light we can’ t possibly know,
yet still claim to possess.